


Labyrinth Coffee

by brookebond, deinvati, oceaxe, QueenThayet, swtalmnd



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Age Difference, Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Ari is a touch meddlesome, Art Student!Eames, Coffee Shop Owner!Arthur, M/M, grad student
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-10-15
Updated: 2018-03-30
Packaged: 2019-01-17 12:24:42
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 12,884
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12365739
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brookebond/pseuds/brookebond, https://archiveofourown.org/users/deinvati/pseuds/deinvati, https://archiveofourown.org/users/oceaxe/pseuds/oceaxe, https://archiveofourown.org/users/QueenThayet/pseuds/QueenThayet, https://archiveofourown.org/users/swtalmnd/pseuds/swtalmnd
Summary: Arthur is the handsome owner of Labyrinth coffee. Eames is a shy art student whose paintings get hung in the cafe. Hi-jinks ensue.





	1. Arthur

**Author's Note:**

> In the Inception Slack, some of us got a little inspired by a coffee shop and its owner and so we created this.  
> There is zero plan. We're making it up on the fly. And have no idea where it's going or when it might end.
> 
> This is a round robin so each chapter is written by a different author and comes with a different POV.

Arthur hefts the box of freshly roasted beans, warmth radiating onto his bare forearms, and mentally adds “schedule Yusuf at 6am” to his list of to-do’s for the day-- he really needs someone to let him in the shop. Yusuf will moan and whine but ultimately he’ll come through, as he always does. He’s Arthur’s best barista and although he doesn’t know it yet, will soon be an assistant manager at the Labyrinth Cafe.

He struggles to get his keys out of his pocket while balancing the heavy box, unlocking the door and setting down his burden with an audible thump on the nearest table. A quick scan of the place has him adding “Remind Ariadne re: sweeping” to the list. His oldest employee, he is discovering, has a keen eye for art but still needs work on her attention to detail. 

Once the beans are back in the tasting room (that will soon be a roastery, eliminating the need for early morning cross-town treks), Arthur lets himself sit for a moment with his iPad and update his daily schedule before opening the shop at 7am. The undergrads tend to crowd the place between 7 and 8:15 before clearing off to class, and he’s already looking forward to the lull. Then he remembers that Ariadne is coming with a new show to hang and realizes that there will be no break in his morning. 

And that’s okay. 

Opening this coffeeshop is a dream come true for Arthur. Sure, it’s an ungodly amount of work at times, but he’s never shied away from hard work. And nothing has been more rewarding than telling his old boss to fuck off and laying down his entire earnings from his last contract job on a lease and all the gleaming chrome and glowing hardwoods that surrounded him now. 

Between stocking the sugar/cream station and making sure the right pastries were delivered, the time flies and before he knows it, Arthur’s sold all the pastries, run out of cream twice, and delivered a calm but devastatingly disappointed look to Yusuf, who was late. Well, he was on time. But at the Lab, early is on time. On time is late. 

It’s a good thing Yusuf is a wizard with the espresso machine. 

Ariadne shows up as the last of the undergrads has shuffled off to improve their tender, impressionable minds. 

“Hello, guys,” she says as she wrestles in a huge wrapped canvas. 

“Need any help?” Yusuf offers, his voice nearly cracking on its optimism, but Ariadne just shrugs and says, “Nope!” as she seesaws the enormous thing through the door. 

After about an hour of wrangling, she’s got the whole show hung - six enormous canvasses, all the same size- but that’s where the similarity between them ends. Each is a study in paradox, but in wildly differing styles and mediums, as if Escher had taken mescaline and collaborated with Georgia O’Keefe, Max Ernst, Frida Kahlo, Egon Schiele and Yayoi Kusama. It’s tremendously accomplished and nearly overwhelming in its eclecticity. Arthur gapes.

“Close your mouth, you’ll collect flies,” Ariadne says smugly. “Like it?”

“It’s - where did you find this artist?” 

“Oh, they’re at MACD.” 

“A professor?” 

Ariadne laughs, a clear crisp sound at odds with her triumphant expression. “Grad student.” 

Arthur feels his jaw drop further. “I’m impressed,” he says in a deadpan. 

“I can tell,” Ariadne returns, flip and assured. 

“I like it too,” Yusuf offers, but Ariadne is already on her way to the back of the shop, locating her apron for the midday rush. She’s not killing the closing, but her sandwich skills are non pareil. 

As customers begin to trickle in around 11:00, Ariadne and Yusuf focus on making orders as quickly as possible, while Arthur handles the register and customer contact. Most of the people here are regulars, or become regulars quickly. If it weren’t for students graduating, he’d soon have to look at new spaces to expand into. As it is, his place is pleasantly full most of the time and he’s happy with the flow. 

Arthur is particularly proud of his new endeavor, roasting the beans himself. He’s able to achieve a flavor profile that’s unmatched by any of the professional roasters around town, and he gets to sell the beans for a decent markup, thus offsetting the investment of the roaster and enabling him to employ more people. So far, people are enthusiastic about the quality of his work and he’s selling beans by the pound almost faster than he can roast them. 

So when an entitled woman accosts him at the register asking for a discount on her order (based on some incomprehensible quibble she has with the pricing), he’s a little taken aback. Smooth, courteous customer service is his by-word, but when it comes to haggling, he’s really not into it. He’s gritting his teeth through his smile when he sees a young man enter the shop, someone he’s never seen before. And he would remember him, if he had. 

He’s wearing a chunky knit Fair Isle sweater and broken-in jeans, has mussed hair and pink cheeks and lips that would pay the bills, depending on how he used them. The guy glances furtively around the shop and skulks to the back, and that sets Arthur’s alarm bells off, no matter how good looking he is.

He’s forced to look away when the irate woman in front of him clears her throat in a rather theatrical manner, and he turns his attention once more to her confusing diatribe. He’s nodding and trying to look concerned when he realizes that the kid...boy...man? Is now standing in line. Arthur pastes on his least sincere grin and rings the customer up for the coffee, repeating his zen mantra as he gives her the discount she’s shrilly demanding. 

As she walks off, he lets out a deep breath and turns away from the register to get a sip of his coffee. When he turns back, Hot Sweater Guy has turned away and is evidently staring at the canvasses on the wall opposite the counter.    
  
“They’re fantastic, aren’t they,” Arthur says warmly, glad to have something uplifting and positive to say about the art, for once. “They were just hung today and we’ll have them all month, but already I know I’ll be sad to see them go.” The guy doesn’t turn around. He must be transfixed, the way Arthur is. A good sign. 

“So, you like them?”

HSG turns around and looks surprised--no, shocked-- as if a coffeeshop is the last place on earth he expected to find himself. “I-- I guess so,” he says, sounding vague and disinterested. He’s looking distractedly at the door and it’s obvious that the paintings are the last thing on his mind. 

What a disappointment, Arthur thinks to himself. He’s beautiful, but too dumb to appreciate world-class art when he sees it. A philistine with the face of an angel, it’s really too bad. “What can I get for you?” he says mildly, feeling all his interest in the guy evaporate. It’s for the best, really. No sense developing crushes on the customers. Arthur has an iron-clad rule - no fraternizing with the employees or the customers.


	2. Eames

Since the first time he’d gone into the Lab, Eames had only gone back a few times. He was ecstatic that his pieces were finally being viewed in outside of MACD but there was something about actually seeing people looking at them that was twisting his insides in an unpleasant way. He was vulnerable and even though he’d convinced Ari not to put his name up, he felt as though the second he stepped a foot in the door, everyone was looking at him, knowing his inner demons, knowing exactly what he was exposing with those paintings.

And he couldn’t stand it.

Somehow it didn’t stop him from going to the Lab, ordering a Freudian, and taking a seat at one of the tables in the back. It offered him the perfect view of the shop: he could see each and every one of his paintings, the counter, Yusuf and Ari working, and customers coming and going.

He was halfway through his drink when his eyes landed on the tiny red dot next on the title of one of the paintings. It was innocuous, but Eames knew what it meant. Someone had come into the shop, seen his painting, and bought it. His grip tightened on the cup, heart threatening to jump out of his throat if he so much as moved an inch.

Someone had bought one of his pieces.

It wasn’t just any of his pieces, though. It was Liminal.

The black and white were a stark contrast to the colours in the other pieces. There was a somber feeling to it that spoke to Eames when he’d painted it but now that he was looking at it in the light of day—and a coffee shop—Eames was seriously regretting that he’d ever let it out of his studio. But  _ now _ someone had bought it and he was going to have to let someone have it in their house or wherever they wanted to hang it.

Eames was ready to wring Ari’s neck for ever talking him into showing his pieces.

“You’ve seen then,” Ari whispered, snaking into his thoughts and scaring him.

His spot at the back was supposed to have offered him ample time to see someone sneaking up on him.

“Who?”

Ari shrugged, dropping into the seat next to him. “Came in today and the red dot was there. I could ask Arthur, if you want.”

“Please don’t,” Eames said, choking on his coffee.

The proprietor of the Lab was a lovely man, if Ari’s accounts were to be believed. Though, Eames had figured out that she was telling the truth. Eames had seen Arthur interacting with the customers himself and each time he was an absolute gentleman. He remembered people’s names and their orders. From the way Arthur moves behind the counter with such assured movements, it’s obvious that he cares about his company a great deal and that intrigued Eames. He might have been just that little bit infatuated with the older man. It wasn’t his fault that Arthur had a tendency to roll his shirt sleeves up, revealing those toned forearms.

“I wasn’t aware I was paying you to chat with the customers, Ari.”

Eames’ heart stopped and he chanced a look up at Arthur, regretting the decision almost immediately. Arthur was grinning at Ari, dimples pressing firmly into each cheek giving him a boyish quality.

He was without a doubt infatuated with this man.

“I was taking my break,” Ari countered, standing and grabbing Eames’ empty cup from his death grip.

“Friend of yours?”

“Oh yeah. Arthur, Eames. Eames, Arthur,” she said, waving a hand between them.

“Pleasure,” Arthur said, smiling directly at Eames and holding out a hand.

“Oh… um… yeah… same,” Eames stumbled, half standing and half leaning forward to shake the man’s hand.

“Smooth,” Ari muttered only loud enough that Eames heard.

“So you’re a friend of Ari’s?”

Eames nodded, his tongue feeling too big for his mouth.

“He’s a student at MACD,” Ari answered for him.

“Oh, you’re an artist? Do you know the person that did these?” Arthur asked, enthusiasm dripping from his words.

The obvious thing would be to say yes, to own up and offer to take the pictures off the walls. But Eames couldn’t find his voice, couldn’t actually own up to creating the paintings. In all reality, he just didn’t want to see the sympathy from someone that could probably see the lack of a cohesive style, the blatant inspiration from other artists.

“Arthur,” Yusuf called, unknowingly saving Eames from having to answer Arthur’s question.

“Sorry,” Arthur said, flashing another dimpled smile and heading off to save Yusuf from whatever crisis was happening with a gentle clap on his shoulder.

Eames slumped back into his chair, glaring at Ari’s too chipper grin. “I really hate you right now.”

—

Eames was giddy.

The month was up which meant that his paintings had to come down from the Lab and he’d told Ari that he could grab them since she’d been kind enough to actually put them up. Plus, this time she would have been working a full shift and Eames was enough of a friend to not ask her haul his giant paintings back to his studio for him.

Eames had gotten to the Lab half an hour before closing and ordered a Heart Attack then promptly sat at the table that had quickly turned into his usual. The eight shots of espresso had him jiggling his leg, twisting the mug in his hands as he waited for enough people to clear out so he could get to work.

He’d spent the entire month long exhibit without announcing to anyone that he was the artist and somehow every single piece sold. Every last one.

Eames was planning on celebrating with Ari once the paintings were safely packaged up back at his studio, ready for him to deliver to their new homes. He just had to get through the massive caffeine overdose he’d just ingested.

“Ready?” Ari asked, turning to Eames as Yusuf saw the last customer out the door.

“Thank fuck,” he said, jumping up from the table and sliding his jacket off. He left it resting on the back of a chair and got to work with the painting closest to him.

It took the better part of an hour, and another coffee, for Eames to get five of the paintings down and into the back of the van he was borrowing.

“Oh, you’ve got them down already,” Arthur sighed, appearing through the front door and startling Eames. “And you convinced your friend to help. Guess the muscles help with the heavy lifting.”

Eames glanced at Ari, eyes wide, heart pounding furiously.

“Well, he is—”

Eames shook his head, silently pleading her not to reveal him. He wasn’t sure why he didn’t want Arthur to know that he was the artist but he had a feeling that it was because the paintings exposed him and he didn’t want Arthur looking at him as though he was something strange. Eames wanted Arthur’s respect and his art had never succeeded in garnering him respect from anyone before.

“Pretty to look at,” Ari finished, frowning at Eames in a way that suggested she was going to be asking what happened later when they were alone.

Arthur hummed but didn’t respond, leaving them to continue working without distractions.

Eames moved as fast as he could, attempting to get out of the Lab as quickly as he could manage because he was not interested in lingering and making even more of a fool of himself. Also because he didn’t want to give Ari any opportunity to grill him before he was ready.

“Here’s the list of buyers,” Arthur said, reappearing near Eames with a sealed envelope that had the Labyrinth logo on the front of it.

“Thanks.”

“It’s a real shame to see them go,” Arthur said wistfully, crossing his arms and leaning against the wall. “It doesn’t feel the same in here anymore.”

“Yeah,” Eames muttered, toying with the envelope so he wouldn’t focus on the muscles of Arthur’s exposed forearms.

“Maybe Ari can convince her friend to let us have some more paintings again.”

“Oh, I’m positive I can convince them,” Ari said, cutting in and slapping Eames on the back. “They don’t have much else on at the moment.”

“Ari,” Eames warned. “I’m sure your  _ friend _ has a lot on their plate right now.”

“Oh, I don’t know. They seem to have found plenty of time to drink a lot of coffee in the past month.”

Arthur laughed, his cheeks dimpling and distracting Eames from him simmering annoyance. “Well, let me know. I’d love to see what else they come up with.”

“You suck,” Eames said once Arthur was out of earshot, already formulating a plan to make Ari’s life hell for the next month.


	3. Robert

Robert had bought the painting the day he first saw it in the Lab. He'd seen that there were two dots already, and he could already tell the show would sell out and start the artist on his way to a real future in the art world. After a series of messages passed through his secretary, he finally got an appointment set up. His art collection was a tiny bit of good in the shitshow that was his life right now.

Arthur was the other good thing, no matter how much it hurt not to be allowed to kiss him anymore. At least he hadn't kicked Robert out of his life entirely, just his bed, and he'd even put Robert's favorite drink on the menu. Even if the asshole had named it the Freudian.

The doorbell rang, and Robert answered with a warm smile for the shockingly hot guy on the other side. "Oh, hey, you're Ari's friend, right?" he asked, stepping back. "Come on in, I've got the wall all ready for you."

"Erm, yeah, I'm Eames," he replied, heading inside. "Wow, this place is nice... Is that a Tadashi?"

Robert closed the door and followed him, admiring the fit of his paint-stained jeans. "Yeah, he exhibited at Arthur's back when he was just a Freshman. The one next to it is from that exhibit, but I like to get an artist's mature work if they graduate from coffee shops to real galleries." He led Eames to the blank space he'd chosen for Speciality, which was clearly big enough for two works. "I'm pretty sure this mystery friend of Ari's is going places."

"I hope so," said Eames, sounding a bit faint.

"Do you go to MACD, too?" asked Robert. He'd set out his toolbox and stepladder, but he liked to let someone else do the actual work of hanging the paintings. Especially when it was someone as attractive as Eames.

"Erm, yeah," said Eames. He set the painting down and unwrapped it, which pulled Robert's thoughts back out of his pants to admire the work. It really was gorgeous, and he was going to have to bribe Ariadne to tell him next time the artist exhibited anywhere so he could finally find out their name and keep in contact.

"I guess the artist is doing the other deliveries? I mean, I don't mind, I've seen you at the Lab so I know you're not some random painting-delivery serial killer," Robert laughed, feeling awkward about the flirting. "I had kind of wanted to meet them, though."

"Yeah, sorry, s'just me," said Eames with a grin that didn't reach his eyes.

Robert took that for a sign to stop flirting with the poor man and step back so he could do his job, and it didn't take long at all before the painting was hung on a picture hook and straightened with a level, the man's shirt riding up enough to show off more enticing tattoos. His attention kept being drawn back to the artwork despite the other excellent view, the riot of color so different from the black and white Arthur had bought. There were hints of the same hand, though, in the feeling of depth and curve and space, the hints of some story behind the abstraction that he couldn't quite fathom.

"All right, well, thank you," said Robert, once it was in place. He wanted to have a moment alone with his new art before he headed over to Arthur's; they were going to talk about an investment so that Arthur could get that roastery open, which Robert was excited to see. Both that Arthur trusted him to invest, and that he'd be able to send Labyrinth's special roasts out to more people as gifts.

"You're welcome," said Eames, his smile more confident now that business had been finished. "I'll see you around, I guess?"

Robert smiled flirtily back. "If you keep coming to the Lab, I'm sure you will. And you have my number."

"Well, your secretary's number," Eames reminded him.

Robert laughed. "True, and I suppose the artist has that." He hesitated, then offered lightly, "I could give you my private number, if you'd like to meet up again."

Eames' smile warmed just enough to let Robert breathe a sigh of relief. "Yeah, I'd like that." Phones came out and numbers were exchanged, and then Eames pled deliveries to be done and headed off.

Robert was already looking forward to seeing him again.

\---

Every time Robert saw Arthur, he had the urge to kiss him hello, even now. "Arthur, how's it going?"

"Pretty good, the artist's gonna be here in a few." Arthur left Robert to hang up his coat and head inside, comfortable enough that he knew where things went. "I'm almost done with the pourovers."

"You spoil me," said Robert with a smile. "That friend of Ari's delivered mine, Eames? The hot one."

Arthur laughed. "That doesn't really narrow it down, and isn't he a bit young for you?" He was doing the last pour on their coffees and his dimples made Robert smile back.

"Nonsense, he's old enough to know what he wants," said Robert. "Anyway, we'll see if you get to meet the mystery artist. I'm dying to know who it is."

Arthur rolled his eyes. "Do you want caramel in this or not?" he asked, gesturing to their filled cups.

"You know I do," said Robert. Arthur didn't keep a full espresso machine up in his apartment, but the low-tech version of his favourite drink was still good, made with coconut cream that gave it a thick, sweet feel on the tongue and topped with cinnamon. "What're you having?"

"I got some new syrups in, so I'm trying them with the coconut cream," said Arthur, going over to the box to pull out four bottles. "Hm, rose or winter citrus?"

"Try the citrus, see if it works with coffee," said Robert, already fixing up his own cup with the stuff Arthur had left out for him.

The doorbell rang, and he grinned. "Finish me off with a bit of cinnamon and I'll get that," he said.

"Not my job anymore," teased Arthur, but he took over stirring the thick cream and caramel into the cup.

Robert was only a little disappointed to find Eames at the door. "Oh, hey, long time no see, come on in," he said with a grin.

"You're Arthur's receptionist now?" asked Eames, hefting the big canvas inside.

Robert chuckled. "No, no, we've been friends since before he opened the cafe." He closed the door after Eames. "The wall's over here, Arthur, are you making him a coffee?"

"I'm giving him yours, he likes the Freudians, too," said Arthur heartlessly. "I'll make you another, don't worry."

"I promise, I didn't even get to taste it yet," said Robert with a chuckle. "Arthur was nice enough to put my favorite on the menu, even if he did name it after the cause of our breakup."

"Freud?" asked Eames, eyes wide.

"Daddy issues," said Arthur dryly, handing Eames the cup. "This is the low-tech version that Robert puts up with because he's too lazy to stop by the Lab for a proper one."

"Ta," said Eames, looking awestruck again and rather shy. Robert could sympathize, Arthur was enough to set hearts a-flutter whether gay or straight, and Eames was definitely not straight.

"I'll get him started hanging if you'll make my coffee," said Robert with a laugh.

Arthur looked sheepish. "Yeah, go on, you know where I want it."

"I do, yeah," said Robert, leading Eames to Arthur's bedroom and the too-long-bare wall at the foot of the bed that had once held Robert's favorite erotic painting. He still had it, though it was in storage for now, and he thought this new one rather suited the man Arthur had grown into. "Need a hand?"

"Yeah, actually," said Eames, relaxing now.

Robert was amused. "I get that with Arthur, you know. He's just so smart and hot and competent, it's like looking at the sun sometimes."

Eames gave him an alarmed look and then laughed. "D'you think he knows?"

"Nope," assured Robert. "Anyway, let's do this thing."

It didn't take them too long, even with Arthur's less than stellar tools, and soon enough the painting was ready to lull Arthur into whatever sort of dreams he had these days. Impossible architecture was always a thing with him, though, so Robert felt like the artwork he'd chosen was perfect for that.

Arthur joined them, handing Robert his coffee finally. "Had a call from the shop, sorry. Oh, that looks great."

"Thanks," they both said in unison, making them all laugh.


	4. Eames

The coffee was possibly even better than it was in the store, but Eames wasn’t going to admit that to anyone, least of all the actual  _ owner _ of the Lab. But as he sipped at the drink—looking at the picture with both Robert and Arthur—he couldn’t stop the small noises of pleasure from slipping out.

It was embarrassing, standing in a room with two ridiculously attractive older men while they stared at his most intimate piece. Neither of them knew he was the artist. Eames couldn’t figure out why he hadn’t introduced himself as the artist to Robert but there was a part of him that was still terrified of being seen as a person without an identity.

Robert and Arthur were in the middle of discussing that painting, both with wildly varying opinions about why they like the painting.

Eames took a step back, willing to just let the conversation pass him by without adding anything to it. He rather wished they’d waited until he was gone before they started dissecting anything because Eames was feeling vulnerable enough as it was. The half-drunk coffee he was holding was stopping him from leaving.

Unfortunately, chimes filled the room, interrupting Arthur mid-sentence. Robert shot Arthur an apologetic smile that Arthur rolled his eyes at.

“Answer it,” Arthur said with a wave of his hand.

“Sorry,” Robert said to Eames, pulling his phone out and ducking out of the bedroom, his crisp voice fading down the hall with every step away. Eames could make out something about his father and the name of the coffee was making a lot more sense.

“So, is the artist some sort of recluse?” Arthur asked, dragging Eames’ attention from the hall.

The question startled Eames. It didn’t exactly lend itself to admitting that  _ he _ was the artist, that he was the tortured soul that had created the black and white piece that now had pride of place in Arthur’s bedroom.

“Sorry, what?”

“Ari put the pictures up, you took them down, and now you’re here hanging them. So, I was just wondering why the artist wasn’t here doing it themselves. Unless you owe them a massive favour?” Arthur asked, the words flowing with an ease Eames found himself jealous of.

“Ah, no. Not a recluse,” Eames answered, staring at the painting. He’d worried about having his artwork up in other people’s homes since Ari had convinced him to put the paintings up at the Lab but now, standing there and seeing Liminal hanging on the wall, Eames felt as though it fit. A part of him felt as though the picture had always been destined to end up in Arthur’s bedroom and that sounded ridiculous. Eames had no belief in fate or destiny. Things happened because people made shitty decisions. But apparently, life was fighting him on that front.

Liminal fit into Arthur’s home and Eames tried not to see that as some sort of sign of anything more than just a good eye for decorating.

“So you owe them, then?”

It was getting harder not to just out himself as the artist once and for all. Only his fear made him hold his tongue. “Something like that,” he mumbled, wishing Arthur would just let the whole discovering the artist thing drop. “Do you collect much?” Eames asked, directing the conversation in a way he was more comfortable with.

“I have a few pieces. Just things that have been in the Lab. Running a decent coffee shop doesn’t exactly lead itself to having much time for shopping,” Arthur said, offering a small smile. “Wanna see them?”


	5. Arthur

Arthur led the way down the hallway to the second bedroom, which he’d converted to a study of sorts.  It wasn’t impressive, but it was home, and he tried not to wonder what Eames was thinking as he opened the door and stepped through.

He shouldn’t have worried.  His tidy but cozy desk took up most of the space, his treadmill tucked in the corner.  But Eames’ focus was on the walls.

And rightly so.  Arthur tore his eyes away from Eames’ obvious and very appropriate admiration, as well as the paint-spattered t-shirt stretching over his shoulders, and saw the art as Eames was seeing it.  He wasn’t lying when he said he didn’t have the time to shop for art, but he was very, very lucky.  His art came to him.  As most of his time was spent at the Lab, being surrounded by beautiful work was a joy and a priority when building his shop’s ambiance.  Plus, he got to showcase the young, local art students attending the school.  The fact that he got to purchase their work before anyone else was just a bonus.

There were four pieces in the room, all from different artists.  On the sun-side wall hung two rectangular canvases, a large oil and a smaller, vertical watercolor.  They complimented each other nicely, a bright and joyful counterpoint to the other two.  The others were darker, more intense, more… erotic, really.  Arthur’s fingers itched for a coffee cup to hold so he didn’t feel so exposed.

“Wow,” Eames breathed, and Arthur felt his body respond to that voice.  Arthur’s shoulders relaxed at Eames’ wide eyes, his stomach unclenched at Eames’ lack of judgment to this very personal space.  But Arthur’s ears felt a little warm.  And he was going ignore the way his heartbeat kicked up a notch.  Because Eames was a customer.  Even if he was standing in Arthur’s house holding one of Arthur’s mugs.  It didn’t matter that his thin shirt showed a hint of ink beneath it, or that the threadbare jeans with smudges of paint clung to his hips.  _Customer_ , Arthur hissed to himself.

“Is this a Tadashi too?” Eames asked, taking a step closer.

“It is,” Robert announced, pocketing his phone as he entered.  “Arthur was jealous of mine.”

Arthur snorted and ignored how close Robert was standing to Eames.  It was a small room.  He tugged on the collar of his button-up.  “I always get first pick, and you know it.”

Robert raised an eyebrow, a cocky grin on his handsome face.  “Always?”

Arthur turned his Manager Stare on Robert, who only continued to grin at him, and Arthur couldn’t stop the roil of actual annoyance in his gut.  If Robert wanted to piss on Eames to mark his territory, he didn’t need to do it in Arthur’s study.

A shifting movement brought his attention back to Eames, who was shuffling his feet and looking very uncomfortable, and Arthur tried to squash his desire to boot Robert out of his apartment.  Again.

“So!” Arthur said, clearing his throat and hopefully the air.  “You like them?”

“Erm, yeah,” Eames said, shuffling again and switching his mug to his other hand.  “I’ve always liked Tadashi’s use of color and line, but I can’t believe you have one of Mal’s.  She stopped doing watercolors, and it’s a bloody travesty.”  

Arthur followed his gaze to the small rectangle above his workspace, the one he looked at between balancing ledgers and anticipating orders for the next week.  He was surprised Eames knew the artist.

“She’s got such a way with form without being linear, ya know?” Eames said, almost to himself.  “It’s like looking at a—”

“Dream,” Arthur finished.

Eames looked at him, a small, approving smile on his lips.  _He’s an art student,_ Arthur reminded himself, trying not to smile back,  _of course he knows about other artists.  It’s nothing to get in a tizzy over. Jesus, Arthur,_ he gave himself a mental shake,  _he’s an art student.  Get a grip on yourself._  He knew better.  He should show the man, young man,  _student, student and **customer**_  out and thank him for his time.  

“So which one do you like best?” he heard himself say.  Damn.

Eames’ lips twitched and he looked at the toes of his shoes.  “Honestly?  It’s probably unfair, but I like ‘Liminal’.”

Arthur smiled at him, charmed unduly.  “Why is that unfair?  It’s fantastic.”

Eames shrugged, a cheeky smile on his face now.  “I suppose I like it best because I know the artist.”

Robert’s interest piqued too.  “Oh? Do you know them well?” he asked.

Eames wasn’t blushing, was he?  He shoved his hand in his pocket.  “Erm. Yeah. Intimately.”

Yes, definitely blushing.  Robert had stilled, his smile changing to the one Arthur hated, the thin one he used for “the public”.  Eames noticed, but he was looking at Arthur.

Arthur was intrigued.  “What are they like?”

Eames huffed a laugh, staring at his cup as he swirled the remains of his coffee.  “Bit of an idiot, really.”  Then he drained it in one gulp.  “I should go.”  He held the mug out.  “Thank you for the coffee.”

“Arthur,” Arthur prompted, taking the mug and holding out his hand.

“Arthur,” Eames parroted, his blush still in place.  He was… gorgeous.  Fine, okay, he was gorgeous.  And Arthur’s name sounded good in his mouth.  He shook Arthur’s hand.

“Thanks for the help,” Arthur said.  “Maybe I’ll see you and your idiot friend around the Lab?”

“Yeah, probably,” Eames said as they walked to the front door.

“See you around, Eames,” Robert called from behind them and Eames turned like he’d forgotten Robert was there.  He nodded and smiled and Arthur closed the door behind him.  There was a beat of silence where he and Robert stared at the door.

“Can I call dibs?” Robert said, a little awed.

“Not without sounding like a 12-year-old asshole,” Arthur replied, still picturing the man who’d already left.

“Huh,” Robert said, taking a drink of his coffee.  To his credit, he appeared to think about it before he said, “Dibs.”

Arthur rolled his eyes.

_____

He was on time the next morning, he knew he was because he was always on time, but he checked his watch anyway.

“Ariadne,” he called, putting the box of beans on the nearest table.  “What are you doing here so early?”

She definitely wasn’t sweeping, he guessed, noticing the floor.  

She grinned at him from where she was struggling with a measuring tape, her arms raised above her head.  “Working,” she said, then yelped as the tape snapped back into the base.

He rushed to help her.  “Need a hand?”

“Yeah, thanks,” she brushed hair out of her face and handed him one end of the tape measure.  “Eames wanted measurements of your walls and I was on my way to the gym, but this appears to be a workout all by itself,” she laughed.

“Here, you just stay here, I’ll walk,” Arthur said to her, turning that bit of information over in his head.  “Why did Eames want measurements of my walls, again?”

“Oh…” she said, looking decidedly guilty.  “Uh, I mean I wanted them.  For my artist friend.”

“Uh huh,” Arthur said, giving her his best Manager Stare.  “The artist friend that Eames knows intimately?”

Ariadne dropped her end of the tape and they both watched as it snaked its way back, clattering the whole way.  “He said that?”

“Mmm,” Arthur hummed, walking back to hand her the tape again.  “Ari.  Why didn’t you just tell me?”

Ari threw up her hands.  “I don’t know!  I don’t know why it needed to be such a big secret!  I was going to tell you—”

“I think you’re really, really talented.” Arthur interrupted, trying to soothe her, his hand on her shoulder.  “I just wished you’d told me you could do all that.  I would have given you time off to work on it if you needed it.  And you’ll always have a space here to display your work.”

Ari blinked at his hand on her shoulder, and then at his face.  “Arthur, you think  _I’m_  the artist?  Good god, have you met me?  If I could do this, I’d be singing it from the rooftops.  You’d never get me to shut up.  I’d be— wait.  You thought I was intimate with  _Eames_?!”

She laughed, loud and bright.  And then she kept laughing.  And then took a deep breath and laughed some more, until Arthur was practically holding her up and she had tears in her eyes.

“Well, surely it’s not that ridiculous,” he scoffed, his ears heating.

“Oh, my god, he is going to shit kittens when he hears that,” Ari said when she finally calmed down enough to be able to talk, then she burst into a fit of giggles and Arthur had to turn away, rolling his eyes.  

“Yes, well, as silly as I am, I’m still your boss.”  He smoothed the front of his sweater vest.  “And the floor needs sweeping.”

“Oh, Arthur,” Ari calmed, smiling, “I’m sorry.  Don’t be like that.  I didn’t mean it.”  She gave him a laughing pout.  “Help me?”  She waggled the tape measure at him until he sighed.  

“Fine,” he said, “but you walk this time.”

She grinned and walked backward, the early morning light filtering through the front window and silhouetting her.

“Ariadne, you bloody tart!  Where did you hide it?”

The voice came with a bang of the front door, and technically it could have been anyone with their back to the sun, their face in shadow.  But that voice, that shape, were burned in Arthur’s working memory and probably would be for a while.  This time, he was the one who dropped the tape.

“Oh,” Eames said, slowing as he drew closer.  “Hi, Arthur.  Didn’t know you’d be in this early.”

“Eames,” he greeted, one cool eyebrow raised because he was a professional and he had not been startled in the least.  “I’m always in this early.”  God, that sounded stupid.

“Eames!  You are never going to guess what—”

“Were you missing something, Eames?” Arthur interrupted smoothly, moving away from them and back behind the register.  He slipped an apron from a hook and over his head, knotting it quickly around his waist.  He was in charge in this space, and it wouldn’t hurt Ariadne to remember it.

Eames glared at Ari and said, “My coat.  Have you got a Lost and Found around here by chance?”

Arthur’s brow furrowed because he didn’t have such a thing, but maybe he should.  “No,” he offered, “but I can keep an eye out.  Did you lose it here?”

“When I was taking down the paintings, yeah.  I must have left it.”

He seemed genuinely frustrated, and Arthur frowned because he hadn’t seen a coat and he hated the thought that someone had stolen something from his shop.  He looked at Ariadne.  

“I’m sure it’ll turn up, Eames,” she said sweetly, her eyes just a little too wide.  “Why don’t you leave Arthur your number and he can text you if he sees it.”

They both turned to stare at her as she blinked her innocence.


	6. Ariadne

“Eames, you _have_ to tell him,” Ariadne insisted as Eames plied her with a third ‘I’m sorry I’m making you lie to your boss’ glass of wine.

“I can’t, Ari, not after a month of not telling him,” Eames groaned as he buried his face in his hands. “What am I supposed to say? ‘Oh, actually I’m the artist, but I was embarrassed and you were really hot so I didn’t say anything, uhhhh?’ Please. He’ll think I’m an idiot.”

“He won’t. If anything, _he’ll_ be embarrassed for assuming you _weren’t_ the artist and then making you feel like you had to play along.” Ariadne gestured emphatically, almost spilling her wine.

“That doesn’t even make sense, Ari.”

“ _You_ don’t even make sense!”

“That’s what I’ve been saying. I’m a mess. There’s no way he would ever be interested in me, anyway. So there’s not really any point in telling him,” Eames said glumly.

“Then why was I busy taking measurements for you all morning? Are you disappearing, never to be seen again, or are you working on a super secret special project that will knock Arthur’s socks off and convince him to date you?” Ariadne asked pragmatically.

“I don’t know,” Eames said, slumping over.

“He’s going to figure it out eventually, Eames. You know that right? And the longer you put off telling him the weirder it’s going to be.”

“The disappearing option is sounding better and better.”

“I thought he had figured it out this morning. I was all ready to apologize for not telling him and it turns out he thought _I_ was the artist! And that you knew me ‘intimately.’” Ariadne stuck her tongue out in disgust. “Gross. As if that would ever happen,” Ariadne giggled.

“Yes, you told me that bit already, and I must say, I’m a little offended at the level of hilarity that you find in the idea of our romantic liaison,” Eames snarked.

“Liaison, who even talks like that,” Ariadne rolled her eyes. “And I’ve worked at the Lab since I was sixteen! Not that I _want_ Arthur thinking about my sex life, but I’m not sure how he hasn’t picked up on the fact that I’m a massive lesbian.”

“There is such a thing as bisexuality,” Eames said lightly.

“Not for me!” Ariadne said triumphantly as she downed the rest of her wine. “Oh my god, is that Mallorie Miles?” she asked in a loud whisper. “No, don’t _look_ ,” she hissed, as Eames turned around to look where Ariadne had motioned.

Eames rolled his eyes and turned his head slightly to check in his periphery. He gave Ariadne a slight nod. “It’s her. Want me to see if she wants to join us?”

“Oh my god, don’t do that, I worship her. You can’t let her see me!” Ariadne insisted, feeling her cheeks burning red, only somewhat due to the wine.

“Now who’s being ridiculous? Mal’s lovely. I thought you’d met her when she did her showing at the Lab?”

“I did and I was a total dork in front of her, and you cannot let her see me. But tonight is not about me, and my love life or complete lack thereof! It is about you, and how you have to tell the truth to Arthur!” Ariadne ended strongly, although she felt a little uncertain about the stability of that line of reasoning. Oh well, anything to change the subject away from the raven-haired goddess at the bar.

“I’ll think about it,” Eames said finally.


	7. Eames

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Help! I tripped and fell in love with vulnerable artist!Eames!

Eames was on his knees in his studio apartment where he’d been for the last several hours.  His favorite work jeans were a smudged tribute to his palette while his shirt had been discarded long ago, and periodically he wiped sweat off his temples with the back of his wrist.  When it was like this, he didn’t realize what time it was, just like he didn’t realize how his hair occasionally picked up traces of paint from his skin, or how his back ached from leaning over the canvas laid out on the floor.  

When he finally straightened and sat back on his heels, his back made its presence known, and the fading light in the windows told him he’d missed a meal.  His canvas, though, was done.  He held his hands up, so he wouldn’t smudge anything before it had a chance to dry, but his heart lurched as he took in the full piece.

He wanted to show everyone, immediately, and knew at the same time he could never show anyone.  It was too personal.  He thought he’d opened up with Liminal, but it was nothing compared to the soul bearing in front of him.  

It was Arthur.  It had always been a portrait, it didn’t surprise him, but the portrait was inlaid with a set of stairs, an image of constantly reaching, climbing, searching, and never reaching your destination.  When Eames looked at it, he could feel the burn in his thighs from an ever-upward motion and a longing in his chest from wanting what he couldn’t have.  _Wanting_.  That’s what he’d title it.  Or maybe, _The Climb_.  Or maybe just, _I Think I Might be a Bit in Love with Arthur Which is Ridiculous and I am So Fucked_.

The canvas was large even by his standards, one of the biggest he’d ever done, and it was different from what he usually painted.  It was a thought-out piece, something carefully plotted before he ever touched paint to canvas, and he’d used his fingers for most of the application.  He stood and walked to the utility sink in the corner to clean his hands, thinking.  His professor would love it.  He could turn it in for his final without necessarily taking it to The Lab.  Arthur didn’t ever have to see it.  It would be fine.  It wouldn’t be wearing his heart on his sleeve.  Or in a shape and size that exactly fit the wall in Arthur’s shop.  It would be fine.

Then his doorbell rang.

He looked through the peephole and that sweater vest alone would have given him away, even if the shape of his ears wasn’t something Eames had been staring at in very large detail recently.  Fuck.  He looked back at the painting, lying on the floor, hoping a miracle had happened and it would be touch dry so he could at least put a sheet over it or something, but no.  He stood on the other side of the door and contemplated just not answering, but he could see Arthur staring at the crack under the door and then frowning.

“Eames?  Are you in there?”

Eames shuffled his feet, scrunching his face in denial even as he reached for the chain.

“Hi,” he said, opening it a crack and standing in front of it.  “Arthur.  How… uh, what… how are you?”

Arthur’s eyes swept him and his eyes widened before Eames remembered his naked chest and bare feet.  

“Eames, hi, I’m, I didn’t mean to interrupt, uh, anything,” Arthur said, and Eames noticed the bundle of fabric he held in his hands.  “I’m just,” he licked his lips and shifted his weight.  “I found your coat and wanted to return it.”

“Ah, brilliant,” Eames said, angling his arm out the door and still trying to block Arthur’s view.  “Ta, Arthur.”

Arthur turned over the denim with a reluctant air and a quick check told Eames it was indeed his coat.  

“Where did you find it?”

“Oh,” Arthur said, fidgeting with his sleeves as he pushed them up to his elbows, and okay, his next painting was going to be about forearms.  “It was tucked in the back between some boxes of beans.  So, it might smell like coffee for a while.  Sorry about that.”

Eames tilted his head and took a quick sniff of his coat.  It did, indeed, smell like Arthur.  He would need to let it air out if he wanted to get anything done while wearing it.  Anything productive, anyway.  “Wonder how it got there,” he mused, more to have something to say rather than actually wondering.

To his surprise, though, Arthur looked embarrassed.  “Ah.  Well, I think Ariadne may have had something to do with that.  I think she’s trying to— well, I think she put it back there, anyway.  Anyway.  Sorry to stop by so late.”

Eames checked the clock in his living room.  “It’s 8:35.”

Arthur blinked.  “Right.  I mean, late for me.  It’s after closing, so that means the end of the day, right?”  He gave Eames a weak grin, a shadow of a dimple forming on his cheek.  “I meant, sorry to interrupt.”  He gestured vaguely to Eames’ whole person and he was turning to leave when Eames realized what he thought Eames must have been doing.

“Oh, no, Arthur, you’re not interrupting anything, I not— I mean, I was just working.  But I’ve just finished, so, it’s no bother.  Really.  So.  Thank you, again.”

Arthur turned back, his eyebrow cocked and a spark of interest in his eye.  “Working?”

“Uh.”  He’d come halfway out of the door trying to stop Arthur from getting the wrong idea and now he pulled the door further shut again.

“On a painting?”

“Well, yes, but it’s—”

“Could I see it?  I’ve never seen any of your work.”

“Oh, well, I… it’s not… done yet.”

“That’s alright, I don’t mind a work in progress.”

Fuck. Arthur with a bone was a tough dog to shake.  “Um,” Eames said, but unless he flat out told Arthur no, he wasn’t sure how to get out of it.  And he didn’t really know how to tell Arthur no.  He wasn’t sure he wanted to learn.

He held his door open a little wider and stepped back and Arthur grinned at him for real this time.  He had not one, but two dimples and Eames decided that whatever the outcome, making Arthur smile at him like that was worth it.

Except there wasn’t much else to look at in his apartment.  The painting was where he’d left it, upside down now, but unavoidably Arthurian in content.  He scratched the back of his head and grimaced, waiting for the verdict and rethinking every decision he’d ever made.

Stupid.  This was so stupid.  He should have kept lying.  He shouldn’t have fucked up the space to show his work, especially since last month’s had been so successful for him, and he shouldn’t have fucked up Ari’s easy work atmosphere, and he _definitely_  shouldn’t have fucked up any chance he had of not being creepy and possibly, maybe asking Arthur out some day.

Arthur navigated carefully around the canvas, his eyes riveted to the paint, and Eames couldn’t tell.  He could not tell what Arthur was thinking, and the silence dragged on and on.

He saw Arthur’s throat work, once, and he thought he was going to say something, but then he just kept staring.

“It should be on the floor,” croaked Arthur’s voice, like it was escaping him without his consent.

Eames looked at him, sure that he’d misheard.  “What?”

“When you show it.”  Arthur finally looked up, and his face was a mass of emotions, raw and real, and okay, maybe his next painting wouldn’t be about forearms at all.  Maybe his next painting, and every painting for the rest of his life, would be trying to capture that feeling on canvas.

“What do you mean?”

Arthur pointed to the painting as if they could have been discussing anything else.  “You painted it on the floor, didn’t you.”  

It wasn’t a question, but Eames answered it anyway. “Yes, but—”

“You should show it on the floor.  The placard too.  So people have to squat down to read it.”

Eames frowned, coming around to see it from Arthur’s perspective.  “No, I can’t do that— it’s about climbing upwards.”

“Yes,” Arthur agreed, sounding awed.  “Upwards.  Forever.  A constant…” He broke off and looked at Eames then.  His face was determined.  “On the floor.  Trust me.  People should feel the burn in their legs when they stand back up.  And the angle is perfect.”

Eames’ whole body thrummed at the word ‘perfect’ and there was a tension in the air that hadn’t been there before.  Or maybe it had, and Eames had been trying to ignore it.  They both looked at the painting and Eames swallowed.  

“So, you’re not upset?” he ventured.

Arthur barked a harsh laugh and turned to Eames.  “Upset?  Why didn’t you just tell me they were yours?”

Eames flinched and stared at his feet, hands on his hips.  “I don’t know.  I just wanted to…”  he gestured to the painting and then helplessly at himself, knowing he wasn’t explaining it and being unable to find the words.

“Wanted to what?” Arthur said, a crease between his eyebrows, and fuck it all.  He’d thought this was something that could have been fixed.  Because he’d liked it.  Arthur had liked the painting, he’d been sure of it.  Hadn’t he?

“Impress you!” he finally burst out.  “I wanted to impress you, and I didn’t think _this_  would do it,” he said, flailing a hand at himself again.


	8. Arthur

Eames’ flailing hand seemed to encompass everything about him and his studio, his expression bewildered. It made Arthur’s heart clench painfully.

“Why would I not be impressed? You’re an incredibly gifted--” Arthur stopped himself from going further down the road of reassurance, even though he deeply wanted to make sure Eames knows that “impressed” was a vast understatement, because his brain had finally processed the first part of Eames’ outburst.

Eames wanted to impress him. It seemed critical to ascertain exactly _why_ he wanted to impress him.

Eames just stood there, glaring at the painting on the floor as if he could change its subject matter by sheer force of will. 

“Are you worried that I’m offended?” he asked, mortified by the idea. He’d never been so flattered in his whole life. He’d offer to buy to the painting on the spot, except that the overtones of self-obsession were a little over the top, not to mention that Robert would never let him live it down.

Eames’ gaze lifted and met his own, and he nodded slightly, his cheeks flushed. “I didn’t ask. I should have asked. I should have told you from the beginning, but I…”  
Arthur couldn’t help but feel a little bit pained at discovering that the root of Eames’ discomfort was fear that he’d taken a liberty with Arthur’s visage, not for any other reason. He wouldn’t allow himself to focus on what other reason he might have been hoping for. His heart was still racing from finding out that Eames was the artist--how on earth could he have failed to put that together? Had Robert sussed it out? Arthur felt like a fool, and the moreso for thinking that perhaps Eames had painted him because--well, no. 

“It’s fine, it’s fine,” Arthur found himself saying a beat too late, knowing that he sounded a bit pat. “Really, Eames, I am impressed. I don’t know why you found inspiration in, uh,” he laughed self-consciously as he gestured to his face. “But you captured the essence of, well. Something I’ve always felt. I feel a bit transparent, actually. It’s superb work, you’re tremendously talented. You must know that.”

Eames nodded again, his posture stiff, and Arthur knew his words had not sunk in. Not in the least. 

“I think I understand why you didn’t tell anyone,” he said, fearing he was digging himself a deeper hole but wanting to reassure this lovely young man, who clearly needed it. “When I was still working my old job and I was feeling--” 

He broke off as his phone started beeping, the specific ringtone signalling an emergency at the shop. What the fuck? He’d left Yusuf in charge there, closing up. Yusuf, his new manager. Yusuf better have a damned good reason for calling.

“I’m sorry, Eames,” he said, retrieving his phone from his trouser pocket. “Emergency.” 

“Not a problem. I’ll, uh, just go put the kettle on,” he said, waving vaguely towards an alcove that must contain a tiny galley kitchen and walking away towards it. Arthur watched him retreat, mourning the loss of the moment as he thumbed his phone to answer. 

“Yusuf, what is it?” 

There was a sound of breaking glass and Yusuf uttered a tiny muffled squeak, sending a wave of adrenaline spiking through Arthur’s bloodstream. “Tell me what’s going on,” he rapped out in a firm voice, a voice he’d thought he left behind years ago.

“There’s been… a break-in? I think? Well,” Yusuf let out a hysterical giggle, “the plate glass got broken, near the door; a piece just fell, don’t know if you heard that… but the lock was forced as well, and… I swear, Arthur, I was only in the back for a moment, cleaning up in the roasting room. I heard the window smashed and then, well, if Ariadne had been here, I would definitely have charged out there, but--”

Arthur suppressed an eye-roll at Yusuf’s misdirected affections, amazed at himself for sparing the emotional energy when his shop and employee’s safety were at stake. Never let it be said he couldn’t be petty when it counted. “Where are you now?” 

Eames walked back in, pulling a t-shirt over his head as he came, and Arthur had to ask Yusuf to repeat what he’d just said.

“You’re in the roasting room with the door barricaded?” he clarified, rubbing his hand over his face both in disbelief and to hide his reaction to the stretch and flex of Eames’s arms and shoulders. “Are the intruders still there?”

Eames’ head jerked towards him at those words, his shapely mouth open in shock. “What--?” he began, then shook his head and muttered “Sorry,” and leapt up to turn off the screaming kettle.

“I’ll be right over,” Arthur said, heart pounding out of proportion to the threat. 

It was almost certainly those annoying alt-right kids he’d kicked out of his shop a few weeks ago, trying to scare him into taking down his sign proclaiming his shop welcomed all races, all religions, all genders, etc etc, on the ludicrous grounds that it was exclusionary to racists and bigots. When he’d told them to go fuck themselves, they’d screamed some pretty disturbing slurs against _faggot jews_ that had utterly failed to intimidate Arthur. He had, however, banned them from the shop.

“I’ll come with,” Eames said, slinging his jacket on without waiting for a response from Arthur. 

“I’m sure it’s nothing,” he said, but even he could hear the doubt in his voice. Had his military days really been so long ago? “Yusuf is a drama queen, it was probably just some kids.”

Eames stood by the door, waiting for Arthur. “Just in case,” he said, “I’ll be your backup while you sort things out.” He looked fierce and intent, so different from his usual demeanor that it was like he’d turned into a new person. Arthur was both fascinated and a little disturbed. And ever-so-slightly turned on. “Just in case,” he repeated, his eyes eloquent with an unspoken plea.

“Okay, yeah. Thanks,” Arthur said as he walked past Eames to the hallway, brushing against him accidentally and trying not to notice how the smell of musk mingled with the oils he’d been using. To paint Arthur’s portrait. “I appreciate it.”

They walked down the hall and out into the street where Arthur’s car was parked. Eames waited patiently by the passenger door until he heard the _click_ , then slung himself inside gracefully. Arthur tore his eyes away from the long line of his thigh, straining the fabric of his paint-splattered jeans, and put the car into gear.  
“I really hope nothing is too damaged at your shop,” Eames said as Arthur peeled out of the parking space and barrelled south. “Woah,” he added, as Arthur narrowly avoided hitting someone crossing against the light.

“Sorry about that,” Arthur said, forcing himself to slow down. 

“No, it’s fine, I rather like it. Makes it exciting, like a heist or a car chase.” Arthur found himself smiling in spite of his worry, and looked over at Eames, who was now smiling impishly at him, a twinkle in his eye. He was, yet again, like an entirely new person. Arthur’s heart flipped over-- each new incarnation was compelling in its own right. Sensitive, competent, playful. He had no idea what might come next. 

“Well, I hope it’s not too exciting, or the insurance might not cover it all.” He took a turn just a hair too fast and the centrifugal force had Eames tilting over towards him, just close enough that Arthur caught a whiff of his distinctive scent. “Speaking of insurance, let me go in first. I’m, um. Armed.” 

Eames straightened up in his seat and gave him an appraising look, like all his opinions of Arthur were being traded out for new ones. Higher? Lower? It was impossible to say. 

“You are full of surprises, Arthur,” he said, suppressing what appeared to a disbelieving grin. Higher, then. 

Arthur’s heartbeat kicked into overdrive as they pulled up and he saw the plate glass strewn over the sidewalk. A huge, ragged hole gaped in the main window and he felt a hot burst of rage for whoever had done this. He got his gun out of the trunk of the car and stuffed it in the waistband of his pants, feeling Eames’ gaze track his movements. They approached the shop slowly, and Eames shadowed him as they walked to the door, which still stood ajar.

One hand on his gun, Arthur kicked the door open, making a loud sound that would alert any remaining intruders of his entry. It was not wise to risk startling someone in a situation like this. 

The lights were off; Yusuf must have been just about to leave when the kids came. Arthur was convinced it was just those stupid teenagers, but the remote chance of it being someone more dangerous made his pulse throb in his throat. He found the switch by touch and the room flared with light. There was no sign of anyone in the main space. 

Arthur turned to Eames, who had yet to enter, and found him examining the lock with an air of someone who knew what they were looking at. “This was done by amateurs,” he murmured, then looked up at Arthur, his eyes keen and assessing. Another person again. This one professional, analytical. There was no end to the facets of Eames, it seemed. None of it seemed forced or false; he was simply a person with fathomless depth. 

Arthur shook his head at his own overwrought train of thought, but Eames apparently took it as a commentary on his assessment of the perpetrators.  
“I know what you’re thinking; what does an art student know about breaking and entering? I used to--let’s just say, I led a colorful life prior to grad school.” He smiled self-deprecatingly, his uneven teeth making it all the more charming and rakish.

This man had painted Arthur’s portrait with more attention and care than most lovers had given him over the course of a years-long relationship. 

He was falling for Eames, he suddenly realized. Fast. And hard.


	9. Chapter 9

Eames shouldn't have told Arthur that. He could play it off, he supposed. He seemed to have a knack for knowing what men wanted to hear, if he needed to. But Eames found himself wanting Arthur to know the truth about him. Arthur was different. Arthur wasn't some bloke he was picking up in a bar and he could make up any story he wanted because it wouldn't matter in a few hours anyway. He wanted Arthur, sure; he had  _eyes_ , didn't he? But he also wanted Arthur to be okay with the rest of him. The real him.

Arthur's face had an odd look, one that Eames couldn't quite place, so he rose to survey the rest of the shop, noting the empty cash register before he remembered they'd already closed for the night, and the money would have been removed already. By the closing employee.

"Is Yusuf still…?"

The question seemed to snap Arthur back into Manager Mode, and Eames couldn't help the grin and the warm twist in his gut that spread as he watched Arthur work. Arthur moved to the back, righting overturned chairs as he went and bypassing broken glass, leading them down a long, twisting hallway and into what must have been the business next door. This place really was a maze. And much bigger than Eames had realized.

The door Arthur stopped in front of was heavy and wooden.

"Yusuf," Arthur called. "It's Arthur. You still in there? You can come out." His voice was clear, loud, authoritative. Not to mention, sexy as hell. Arthur waited, head cocked and hand on the doorknob, until they could hear movement on the other side.

Eventually Yusuf's curly head poked out the door, looking a little sheepish.

"Hiya, Arthur, Eames."

"You're alright?"

Yusuf nodded. Arthur clapped him on the shoulder, then leaned close and murmured something which sounded like "Mrmrmr... police?"

Yusuf shook his head and Arthur clapped his shoulder again. Eames' interest was piqued in all kinds of ways.

"Do you, uh, need any help cleaning up or anything?" Yusuf asked, hope painfully clear in his voice.

"No, thanks, Yusuf. I'm fairly sure I can say you've gone over and above your regular closing duties tonight. Why don't you take off; I'll sort this out."

Yusuf practically sagged with relief and nodded at Eames as he left, phone already to his ear and gone before he could finish saying, "Hey, man," to whomever he was calling.

Eames took a look around at the extra space.

"Big place," he said, letting it hang.

Arthur nodded. "This is going to be the roasting room. I've been trying different blends to reduce bitterness and acidity, and the stupid weather here is fucking everything all up. Sorry,  _messing_  everything all up. So I'm working with a local architect to see if we can build this as a kind of humidor to store the beans before and after roasting and… sorry. Sorry. I'm just… rambling. Adrenaline."

He dragged a hand through his hair and Eames wanted to snog him so badly it hurt. He grinned.

"You can swear, you know."

"What?"

Arthur looked genuinely confused, and Eames chuckled. "You apologized for saying 'fuck.' You don't have to do that, Arthur. I'm not a child."

Arthur blinked and reflexively, ran his eyes down Eames' body. "I…" He snapped his eyes back to Eames' and then looked away. "I know that, Eames."

Well, now.

Eames took an instinctive step forward, into the edge of Arthur's space. "I'm not an employee, either."

Eames dropped his voice was lower because he knew the steps to this particular dance. He just hadn't been sure of his partner. If the interest was there, maybe Eames could still play to his strengths. Maybe, if he was very lucky, Arthur would be so okay with this, he would accidentally be okay with the rest of Eames in the process.

Arthur looked at him then, locking eyes without looking away, and Eames could feel everything kick up ten notches. That magnetic pull, that subtle drift toward each other— it was intoxicating.

Eames licked his lips, having heard enough about them in his life to know their worth, and sure enough, Arthur watched. "Arthur," he said, long and slow, drawing out the vowels.

"Mmm?"

"You know that, right?"

He let his mouth relax as he talked, let himself slide closer, until he could reach out and stroke the wool of Arthur's sweater vest if he wanted. Until he was close enough that he could slide that expensive material between his paint stained palms, feel his warmth, learn his shapes. If he wanted.

"You can say things like fuck."

The word dropped and shattered between them, edges of it slicing their exposed skin.

"And cock."

Arthur shivered. His pupils were dilated as he watched Eames' mouth, unaware he was leaning towards Eames. Eames rolled the dice and took the final step closer to Arthur, close enough that they were touching, that next vital step in the dance.

His chest brushed Arthur's, and his hands found Arthur's hips. He pulled him in, spreading his hands over belt and trousers and hip bones, his thumbs making small, light circles. Arthur's nostrils flared.

"You're," Arthur mumbled, like he was struggling to come out of a fog, "you're so young though. A student— "

"An  _adult_ ," Eames stressed, interrupting. "A man who can make up his own mind what he wants."

"No, I mean," Arthur said, blinking and leaning back, trying to clear his head. "I mean you're a  _customer_. And I can't… we shouldn't… I mean, I have a policy that I can't… with customers."

"Are you saying you want me to get my coffee somewhere else?" Eames said, following him and pressing even closer. "Because I would do that for you, Arthur. God help me, I would die a little, but I would do it."

Arthur raised his hands to Eames' arms, his eyes tightening at the corners as he tried to focus. Maybe his intent was to push Eames away, but what he did instead was let his fingers curl around Eames' biceps, stroking just under the edge of his t-shirt sleeve. Eames wasn't too proud to flex. Actually, he was pretty proud of that flex. It was a bloody lot of early mornings and no donuts, but if the way Arthur's fingers gripped tighter was any indication, it had been worth it.

Eames grinned at him and slipped his fingers under the sweater vest. Arthur's button down was tucked safely into his trousers, and Eames slid his hands between the two shirts, somehow intimate and revealing, peeling away Arthur's layers one at a time. He pushed his hands up Arthur's back, fingers splayed wide and firm to touch as much as possible at once, and Arthur's breath rushed out with them.

"Eames," he said. and it sounded like an apology, but Eames wasn't having it. He wasn't done dancing yet; he hadn't even gotten to show off his best moves. Eames swooped in and kissed Arthur's lips, the other man going still and his fingers clenching reflexively. Eames crowded closer, wrapping his arms around Arthur fully and pressing in, broadcasting  _You're not getting away that easily_ , and  _please, just, please_  all at the same time.

Eames tilted his head to deepen the kiss, parting his mouth to suck at Arthur's lower lip, and Arthur melted. His hands stroked up to Eames' shoulders, kneading, before swooping over Eames' chest, a faint noise coming from low in his throat. Eames' brain fizzled a little bit at that. Suddenly it wasn't enough to have one finger under the edge of the paper on the beautiful present that was Arthur. Suddenly he wanted to rip open the wrapping paper, tear open the package, and reveal the gift all at once. He took another step toward Arthur, determined to get closer even though they were already pressed against each other. Eames kept kissing, and touching, and pressing, and  _wanting_ , because maybe he didn't want to tear into this. Maybe what he wanted was to remove one. Single. Piece. Of. Tape. At. A. Time. And wait. And drag it out for days, leaving Arthur quivering on the tips of his fingers, feeling as mixed up and laid bare as he did.

Arthur let out a soft, "mmph," as his back hit the wooden door behind him, and Eames was jolted back into himself. He had Arthur's sweater vest rucked up to his armpits, one thumb stroking over a nipple as the other one cupped the arse Eames had been admiring for days. Arthur's hands were fisted in Eames' hair, and when Eames pulled back to look at him, his mouth was kiss-swollen and he blinked wide-eyed.

They were both breathing hard, and Eames could tell the half-hard on he was sporting, which was going to quickly become more than that, was being pressed up against Arthur's own. Arthur shifted back, just a fraction, in embarrassment, and Eames wanted to smile and kiss it out of him.

Except something made a sound when he moved. A scrape of metal against wood, a dark, serious sound, which Eames hated that he could place, but didn't stop him from being able to picture what had made it.

"Is that a gun in your pocket, or are you just happy to see me?"

His voice was low, still distracted by kissing Arthur, and his tone was teasing, but he had caught his breath and remembered.

"It's… a gun."

Arthur seemed to have remembered too.

Eames remembered that he didn't actually know Arthur. He liked Arthur, the way he looked, the way he talked, the way he worked. He liked art and coffee and taking care of people, but there was so much he didn't know. He didn't know how Arthur could afford this behemoth of a business on the income from a coffee shop, and he while he liked it, the sharp clip of authority in his voice when he dealt with employees and the gun for emergencies spoke of a history he didn't understand.

Eames looked into the brown eyes in front of him which were losing their lustful fog and seeming more and more unsure, and knew he was a bloody git who deserved what he got.  _Stupid_ , he chided himself.  _Think. What do you actually want?_

It was the same question he'd asked himself before deciding to enroll at the university. He had spent so much time chasing the wrong things, the ones that got him into trouble.

"Arthur," Eames said, not wanting to let go just yet. "I really, really want this…" He tipped his head against Arthur's and let his eyes fall closed.

"But?"

Arthur's voice was hard and flat, and that just would not do.

"But I want to take you to dinner first. Or," he amended, remembering the check hadn't come through for the art sale yet, "make you dinner first. Can I make you dinner first?"

Arthur pulled back and Eames opened his eyes to the disbelief all over Arthur's face. "You want to... go on a date with me?"

Eames let him up, backing away to give him space and mourn the loss of Arthur's hands in his hair. He righted Arthur's clothing and smoothed down the wrinkles he'd made. "No," he said seriously. "I want to go steady. You could give me your letterman jacket and I'll carry your books to class, and maybe we could even hold hands, someday."

Arthur frowned at him and Eames couldn't help but grin.

"I like you."

Arthur was still frowning, but his eyes looked sad. "You don't know me. And I don't really know you."

He said it like it was a death sentence, like they had no way to fix this and it was over, but Eames just nodded happily. "Yeah. But what I know of you, I like. And I'd like to get to know the rest." He ducked down to meet Arthur's eyes where they'd fallen, forcing him to look at Eames. "And I'd like to let you get to know me."

Arthur hesitated, his hands completely to himself now, space between them. "Eames," he started, and there it was again, his name as if it was an apology.

"Oh, bloody hell, Arthur!" Eames exploded, making Arthur jump. He threw up his hands. "You're acting like we need to exchange diaries before we can eat impressively average spaghetti at my flat this Saturday at 7pm."

Arthur gaped at him and Eames pulled away completely, giving Arthur space to accept or reject his invitation. He was semi-terrified he'd played it wrong and felt more naked than he had in a long time.

"Now, do you have an extra broom? I know how to sweep up." Eames turned and tried to find his way toward the front of the store, not waiting for a reply, but relieved when he heard Arthur follow a few seconds behind him.

He slowed enough for Arthur to pull even, and then followed his lead. When they made it to the back room of the coffee shop, Arthur pulled out a broom and handed it to Eames, then measured the front window while Eames swept.

They didn't talk as Arthur jotted down the measurements, then placed a few calls for replacement glass quotes. Eames took the debris of the night out to the bins, swept once more for stay glass bits, and helped Arthur hold a sheet of plastic up so he could tape it in place.

"So, if I may ask," Eames said, arms over his head and unable to bear the silence any longer, "why didn't you call the police?"

Arthur didn't freeze, but he focused very hard on placing the tape exactly. "You can ask," he said slowly, "but I'd like to save my answer for Saturday, if you don't mind. It's been a long time since I had incredibly average spaghetti."

Eames grinned at him under his arm. "Can't wait." He let himself celebrate for a few seconds before asking, "So. Will you open tomorrow?"

Arthur nodded slowly. "Yes. I'd like to. I don't want to let those bigots win."

Eames nodded. "Then you'll need one more thing."


End file.
